


Lost and Found

by Aloice



Series: Final Fantasy XIII: the H&L-FWWCH Universe [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XIII Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Family Feels, Family love fics deserve more love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, My tribute to the Estheim family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23308495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloice/pseuds/Aloice
Summary: FWWCH Universe, written in two parts.Bartholomew and Nora Estheim are mourning the loss of a child they're not sure they ever had.It's recommended that one readHope and Legacy (chapter 2),From What We Cannot Holdandthis meta postbefore proceeding.
Relationships: Bartholomew Estheim & Hope Estheim, Bartholomew Estheim/Nora Estheim, Hope Estheim/Lightning
Series: Final Fantasy XIII: the H&L-FWWCH Universe [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/952914
Comments: 9
Kudos: 19





	Lost and Found

**Bartholomew:**

You think you were - 

may have been (?) - 

a father once.

A devoted couple’s delusional child craze.

It’s different; Nora feels the cognitive dissonance of a full heart and an empty nest, and you feel the wistfulness of having said goodbye once and been said goodbye to more than once. Some people at work would say it’s a childless woman’s delirium, an older man’s desperation. You know better than that.

What you yearn for is a _child_. A living, breathing child, someone borne of your body and Nora’s, someone who’d had their diapers changed by you, their first drawing book provided by you, their graduation attended by you. Someone who’d bear your name, look up at you with wondering reverence, and - your heart tightens at the thought - perhaps like to come home.

Steadying yourself - why are you feeling a little winded all of a sudden? - you stop, take the empty coffee capsule out of the keurig machine, and review the facts again. Bartholomew and Nora Estheim have no children. Nora’s body shows no signs of having ever been pregnant or given birth. None of your friends and colleagues know of an Estheim child, natural-born, adopted, or lost. There are no signs of anyone with the right age and look in any phone book, on the internet, or in any government archival records.

But the two of you are convinced beyond all doubt and rules of the world that you once had a child, and somehow, somewhere, you had lost him.

Nora noticed it before you.

Perhaps it was just maternal instinct; perhaps, as she has continuously sworn from day one, it was just because she really thought she was with him, up until when she realized she wasn’t. _I could have sworn he was right there with me,_ she’d say, despondent. And you - the rational, upstanding, well-respected senior director Bartholomew Estheim - would have seriously tried to coax her to go see a psychiatrist right then and there if not for the fact that you totally, unequivocally believed her.

 _Was I not there with the two of you?_ You asked, even though you already knew the answer.

 _No_ , she responded - was shocked by her own answer - then stared up at you, a mixture of confusion, horror and relief in her crystalline green eyes all at once. Something churned and twisted within you to see her like that, so you pulled her up and held her close, carefully wrapping arms around fragile shoulders and above creamy wool. _Wait, Bart. You… believe me?_

 _I’ve also had some bad dreams,_ you said, a lie and a not-lie all at once, savoring the sweet smell of her face and neck, the warmth above porcelain skin. She was intensely real and intensely _there_ and somehow that felt like a contradiction too, one made more acute by the new knowledge that both of you knew of a missing child, felt a gaping, life-sized hole in your domestic idyll. _If the child isn’t here, why is she here?_ The panic kept building. The question slips out before you could swallow it. _Don’t leave me, okay, Nora?_

She stilled, seemingly recognizing the bigger plea that had been left unsaid, and edged closer, burying her head deep into the crook of your neck. _I won’t._ And then, something more like a whisper, though filled with her signature brand of conviction: _it wasn’t your fault, anyway_.

 _That doesn’t matter_ , you responded in an even voice, the one you always used when you were trying to seek consensus and reconciliation at an important meeting. Everyone kept praising you for it - called you the diplomat, the negotiator - but all you ever felt like was an imposter. _What matters is now. What do we know about this child and how can we find him?_

_We really don’t know that much about him, huh?_ Nora says a bit sadly as you walk past a child’s clothing store together, her expression one of intense longing as she watches another woman pick up her laughing infant from the stroller. _What if he’s a toddler, a baby -_

 _He’s not a baby_ , you insist, and then the doubts rush in on how you can be so sure of their gender, their age. More than that: you think you know - _knew_ \- how they appeared, how their eyes were the same as Nora’s, their stoicness yours.

Nora sticks to her belief that the child is a child, or at maximum a teenager, someone who still needs encyclopedias, sports toys, and museum tickets. You disagree: you possess hazy but strangely angular memories of the child being older, a young man grown, confident strides and a determined voice. You had been so proud of him. So proud of his accomplishments, strength of will, and - 

_But how could he have garnered all those accomplishments,_ Nora asks, annoyed, _if he’s only thirteen or fourteen years old?_

Things don’t match up. You have a theory about what might have happened but don’t voice it. You think Nora knows it too, and is also keeping mum because it’s both too terrible and too crazy an interpretation to consider and behold.

She volunteers for local schools’ book clubs and tutoring centers. You let her. She goes off to lead youth group visits to various aquariums and zoos. You let her. She starts bookmarking all those miscellaneous sites that offer advice on raising children. You let her. But then time just begins to melt away, and every day becomes turmoil and every night salvation as you become terrified that one day you could blink and she would just drive away and never return. That you could fall asleep embracing her and then wake up in an empty bed. That you could hold her hand too tightly and realize you’re only squeezing air - 

Did she notice again? She has erased four or five commitments from her calendar and is now spending more afternoons planting flowers in the garden. She’s bought daffodils and chrysanthemums, blossoms of silver and gold. The sweetness stays, and so does she.

At some point she has started kissing your temple to wake you up and to bid you goodnight.

At some point you have started spooning her at night when she can’t sleep and cries.

_This is your home_. _But who_ are _you, exactly?_

_This is your home and we want you back._

The child’s presence haunts you. It’s effusing, pervasive. It’s in the shape of the leaves of the trees and the sweet smell of coffee and chocolate just outside the local bakery. You think you can feel him in science labs, in city halls, in the beautiful stained glass of cathedral rose windows. But you can’t remember his name.

He _exists_ : you know this, feel it in your bones just as much as you know that he is yours. A strong Nora resemblance. Moonlight hair. The depth of the ocean in their eyes. A stubborn streak, a perceptive, empathetic mind, a warm, affectionate smile that lights up the whole house when he returns home after work. But why - 

_You know, our child almost feels a bit like God_ , you told Nora once, gazing forward vacantly as you fled a sermon about parenthood that neither of you could find the heart to listen the entire way through. _He’s everywhere and nowhere at the same time. We could confess our love for him, but we could never see him. We are sure that he is brilliant and good, but every time we try to get closer to him, it feels like we’re just straying further from him._

 _But if he is God_ , Nora counters, amused, _shouldn’t we just keep believing in him?_

 _You know all we want is to pull him into our arms and hum_ , you reply, and for now, at least, the air in the expansive church backyard is filled with Nora’s chime-like laughter.

Months pass. The world changes. You begin finding grey hairs (no, _not_ silver hairs) on Nora’s head. You are aging together. It’s an unbelievable luxury. You envision the two of you still living together and still being in love in ancient age and can’t believe how blessed you’ve been.

You still dream of the child. The phantom child that was not lost, not buried, perhaps not even born. A thousand fragmented mirages chronicle you holding him, listening to him, and encouraging him. A pain builds, a deep regret, a gulf undrawn. There’s so much love but it’s all just invisible wishy things in the air. Would the child feel it, wherever he is? Would he know that he is cherished and missed, that all his flaws would be forgiven, all his wounds and scars washed and dressed clean?

There’s always the forbidden thought: what if the child lives - might live right under your nose, in fact - but simply does not _want_ to be found? Surely he should know that there’s a mother and a father who adore him, and would give just about anything to see him again. But then a strange kind of guilt suffocates you right where you stand and you can’t help but feel like it’s your fault, that you’ve failed Nora and the child both. That it’s your punishment to no longer be able to see him again, especially since the universe has already been too kind by still giving Nora to you, let you bask every day in her glow - 

_You’ve changed too, you know_ , Nora says one day, almost idly, as she takes the vegetables out of the fridge for dinner. _You know that I’ve always admired you for your sense of duty, your measured idealism, and your good heart. But in my dreams, you were never the one to get the groceries, decorate the house, or take me out on these extended walks._

 _Do you like it?_ You ask, putting the grocery basket back in its designated place. There’s a heaviness in your heart that you can’t put words to.

 _Don’t try to fish for more compliments_ , she responds, blushing a bit despite herself, and you slowly break into a smile as you reread the shopping list she had given you earlier in the day. Hazelnut chocolate. Vanilla. Hollandaise sauce. Sugar cubes for coffee. All your favorite flavors.

And, you think - you can’t _know_ , but you can still make a guess - all the favorite flavors of the child, too.

Q: How do you decorate a home with a permanently missing person?

A: You don’t, really. The hearth in the living room is an especially awkward spot.

Q: Have you considered adoption?

A: Yes. Many times. We’ve also had several cats and dogs. We are slowly coming around. We would probably make good foster parents, we just need to get over -

The counseling session stops. You and Nora look at each other. The understanding is there before the words. _We have to go_ , Nora says, urgent and apologetic as time stands still. The counselor is confused. What is wrong? _We are sorry. Our child is in trouble. We have to go._

You don’t know _what_ is wrong, _why_ it’s wrong, or even _who_ ; all you have are two parents’ dread, and the pitiful networking and sleuthing skills of a government official and a stay at home not-mom. _We have to find him,_ Nora says. _I dream of him collapsing in his chair and it breaks my heart_. She’s gone through all the scientific organizations in Switzerland and is about to start working her way through the rest of Europe. There’s a furious energy in the way she’s typing in front of the monitor that achingly reminds you of the child. But what was the child doing? _What do you know, Bart? How much do you know?_

 _I don’t know anything_ , you say, and it’s true - neither of you really know anything. All you have going for you are assumptions, instincts, best guesses, delusions. You have seen a thoroughly unrelated young man throw himself in front of a train at the tail end of rush hour and not been able to sleep for two weeks. _I just think… I think he is having a tough time._

 _With what, though? School? Work? A girl?_ Nora presses and her gaze bores into you. You flinch because it clicks then. The things that you love. The things that shouldn’t be here. You are sure the child knows, too. You wonder if the child wants to protect the same things that you do. _Tell me, Bart. I can shield him from anything if I only knew what it was._

 _I’m sure you would_ , you agree, sinkingly, and goes up to hug her tight. She’s shaking. You are hyperventilating. _But please don’t do it._

 _But then, how could I know that he’s going to be alright?_ She pleads to you, and you can feel every single tremor. Every sob. Every fear. Every small moment of resistance due to guilt. It occurs to you that if you constantly dream of living and aging without her, she must also constantly be dreaming of nothing but her own death. She has been falling the entire time. It’s never really stopped. And if she could at least know that she has protected the child -

 _We can only do what we can_ , you say, and then a new vision - no, a new memory washes over you, a warm sunset in a brightly lit hospital room in a home called Palumpolum. And - and you know. And _he_ knows. _Our child. He knows that we love him and he’ll be alright._

 _And why do you say that, Bart?_ You think you must be crying now, too, for Nora’s reached for the tissue box and is now wiping something from the edges of your eyes. Your voice, though, at least, remains steady.

_Because I remember him letting me go. I think he might have let us go, too. Do you remember? In that strange place, neither here nor there. He was there. We saw him. He reached out for us. But then he said he still had a promise to fulfill. Someone he had to save. And he said, if he could succeed in saving her, he knows she’ll save him, too._

There’s something like a chuckle in her sob. _I always knew you’d have all the faith in love._

 _But you do, too_ , you say, as you behold the whole wonder of her, the soft texture of her hair, the kindness in her eyes, the courage that you know simmers just beneath that pale skin and fragile build. Her love had been, and is, your entire world. _That’s why you married me. That’s why we’re here still._

~~_And that’s why - the child -_ ~~

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 will be posted when FWWCH is finished :^)
> 
> Any overt personality similarities between H&L/FWWCH Hope and his parents are absolutely intentional.
> 
> Oh, and did I mention Kara no Kyoukai's music is amazing? Written to "Kimi ga Hikari ni Kaete yuku (君が光に変えて行く, You Turn It Into Light)."


End file.
